Haunted
by Hriviel
Summary: So the Opera Ghost really existed. But what if this apparition wasn't whom we expected it to be? A certain French journalistnovelist we all know is about to discover the tragic and haunting truth behind the legendary Phantom of the Opera. Complete.
1. The Secrets You Know

_**Haunted**_

_"...If Christine keeps her promise, she will return soon! ..."_ - G. Leroux.

* * *

"I am here to report on the Opera Ghost," the journalist said calmly and objectively, prepared for the onslaught of derisive laughter he had earned at the Academy and on the streets. 

But all he received by reply was a curious twinge in the manager's otherwise-friendly smile. "_Un_ _fantôme_? What makes you think this theatre is haunted, Monsieur?"

"Surely, Monsieur, before the famous disaster …" He had all his documents neatly compiled into a leather portfolio that he clutched for dear life. This was the story of a lifetime, he thought eagerly.

"Yes, but that is all in the past. Now, if you please, I must be meeting with our investors. Excuse me." A cool exterior masked the man's flustered state, but the reporter noted it as keenly as if he had written it upon his little yellow pad.

He was ushered out of the office quickly, and left at the top of the grand stair, looking down into the newly-refinished foyer, empty as a graveyard. He heaved a sigh and glanced down at the case in his hands. Perhaps it _was_ a futile search, as his publisher had said emphatically. Perhaps he should have remained a political article-writer and abandon these silly stories. Perhaps—

"_The Opera Ghost really exists_," a voice murmured, like a brush of velvet against bare skin.

"Pardon me?" the startled reporter asked, shaken from his doubtful reveries. He saw an old woman at the foot of the stair, watching him intently with ice blue eyes. Her black dress was faded taffeta, well-worn, and there were grey hairs threaded through her dark plait. When she spoke again, her voice was firm.

"I said, Monsieur, that the Phantom of the Opera is quite real. However, the ghost does not demand money nor obedience nor leave notes sealed in red." The woman's tone was cool and nonchalant.

"But-but the documents—" the reporter stammered unhappily. He had spent countless hours meticulously interviewing former employees, dancers, and servants; he cringed to think that it had all been in vain.

"Surely, Monsieur, you do not believe all that. Why, such material things belong to this mortal world, to mortal men—" Here, her breath caught. "—not to the spirit world. What would a ghost require of 20,000 francs?"

The reporter furrowed his brow. In response, the woman added briskly, "Anyway, that mystery lies buried in the past."

"_That_ mystery, Madame?" he inquired politely, though the prospect of a new mystery intrigued him. He descended the stairs carefully.

"I told you Monsieur, the Opera Ghost really exists." A very sad, very tired smile wavered over her lips before she turned away. "Spend the night in Dressing Room number Six, if you wish to know the truth."

"Is—is it—o-occupied?"

The woman laughed. "No one has used that room in many years."

* * *

It was not hard to borrow the dusty brass key to Dressing Room number Six. It looked like an antique. The room looked different from the others, however. All the other dressing rooms had been neatly and splendidly refurbished. Number Six lay in dismal ruins, covered in ash and soot. It looked like a terrible fire had ravaged the room. The reporter smirked at his own ignorance. A fire _had_ ravaged this room. Of course. The chandelier disaster. But why was only this one left to crumble into nothing? The furniture was blackened, and the wallpaper as well. It looked awful. Cursed. The only thing that looked new was the huge, full-length mirror. It was silvery and pristine. The reporter studied his own bewildered expression within the enormous gold frame. It was cold in here, unaccountably icy, despite the warm corridors outside the double doors. He shivered. 

The reporter sat gingerly in a corner chair, relieved that it didn't give way beneath him. He settled into it. And waited.

* * *

He groggily looked at his watch; it was nearing midnight. A sudden gurgle from his midsection reminded him that he was dreadfully hungry. Absolutely nothing had come to pass in the damaged dressing room. He huffed a sigh; these theatre people were such a superstitious lot. And who was that woman with the authority to assert the existence of a ghost haunting the opera house? 

Just as he began to rise from the aged seat, and give up on the tale of the Phantom, he glanced back at the large mirror. And froze.

A girl stood there, swaying like a lily in the wind; a young woman—beautiful, clad in a lovely white dressing gown, her chestnut curls falling in a loose mass over her delicate shoulders. She had the large, dark eyes of a wounded doe…

_Wounded?_

She slowly pressed her palms against the glass, and leaned her cheek to rest on the smooth surface. The reporter, cowering in the corner, heard her whisper something. She caressed the impassive mirror like a lover.

There was no reflection cast before her.

It was then that he realized she was translucent. He could see the charred wall right through her white gown and her pale face, and a soft glow emanated from her. She whispered again.

"_Angel…?"_

The reporter's breath caught in his throat. Again, she spoke, her voice slowly gaining volume. "Where are you, _mon Ange de la Musique_?"

Suddenly, as if a thread in her had snapped, she broke into a heart-wrenching sob. The sound of her anguished cries went into the reporter's own heart like a burning knife. He had never heard such raw sorrow. She pounded her fists against the glass, tears staining her lovely face. Every strike she made grew in furious strength; he was hypnotized by this vision of tragedy. The cacophony reverberated through the room, and seemed to echo down endless corridors.

Finally, when the reporter was sure she would shatter the mirror, she seemed to slump against it, with one last pained rap upon the glass. But she raised her eyes, and began to sing wordlessly. Her voice was dulcet; altogether powerful, clear, and delicate. The reporter held his breath to listen to her. This could not possibly be a ghost—she sounded like she had descended from a choir of seraphim.

What seemed like mere moments passed before she straightened and cried, with her unearthly voice, "_I promised you I would return!_ I kept my word, _mon ange_! Hear my voice. Why did you not wait for me? Why, _why_ ….?"

Tears stung the reporter's eyes. He felt as though his heart would break from watching her. He took a shaky breath and blinked the tears away. But when he looked again at the mirror, no one was there. The dressing room was dark and empty.

He fled.

* * *

A few days later, he went back during broad daylight to thank the manager for lending him the key to Dressing Room Six. On his way to the office, he noticed several members of the opera population watching him, and whispering. He heard a pretty young ballerina say in an urgent murmur, "He has seen her, heard her! _L'Ange dans l'Enfer_!" 

The businessman dismissed the loaning of the key as a trifle.

"I also wished to thank the old woman who aided me that afternoon," the reporter added.

"What old woman?" The manager's gruff voice drew him back to the present.

"A tall, thin lady, dressed in old black, with a long plait of hair. She had very piercing eyes." He closed his eyes briefly, recalling the image of the worn-but-proud woman.

"Monsieur, you are very accurately describing the former ballet mistress, Madame Giry," answered the manager uneasily, extinguishing his cigar in the ashtray on his desk.

"Please do thank her for me."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that, Monsieur."

"Why not?" The journalist paled at the answer.

"Monsieur Leroux, she died several years ago … And some say, she took the secrets of the Opera Ghost with her."

* * *

_Disclaimer: I'll put the characters back when I'm done with them, I promise! Leroux/Lloyd Webber's. I took lots of artistic license on the blending of book and movie sources, so don't judge accuracy to canon. It's not supposed to be. ) If you liked this story, may I recommend my short tale "Forbidden." Please review! I love feedback.  
_


	2. Ballet Rat Gossip

Gaston left the office in a daze.

Ghosts!

_Mon Dieu_, this was certainly _not_ what he had sought. His research had pointed him quite objectively in the direction that the Opera Ghost was a living, breathing man, not a true spectre! His leather portfolio now felt silly and useless. The smooth, brown surface was warm and aromatic. He was about to throw it down onto the ground, when a few tiny voices called, "Monsieur, Monsieur!"

A handful of little ballet rats were dance-running down the corridor, dressed in their white practice frocks, their hair either pulled back into a bun or down and frizzy. The sight of loose brown hair took him back instantly to that night: _Where are you, mon ange?_ His heart swelled at the memory of her sobs.

The girls gathered around him innocently, like small chicks. "Monsieur, are you going to write about the ghost?"

Gaston sighed. "I-I was. But it was a different ghost."

"Oh, but you must write about the Angel in Hell."

That name. A shiver ran across his arms. He had heard it just earlier. "The Angel―?"

"_Mais oui_, M'sieur!" one of them chirped. "We all hear her at night, singing for her lost love. They say she was a diva here, years ago―"

Chaos erupted. The chattering of young girls' gossip filled the hallway.

"She fell in love with a musician―a violinist!"

"No, it was an organist―"

"No, you're wrong, he was a penniless composer!"

"He locked her up―"

"She was engaged to a rich patron―"

―_and he killed her."_ This last phrase was spoken with such vehemence, the ballerinas fell silent for a moment. "He was a monster, you know."

"There's no such thing!"

"Well, if ghosts can exists, monsters can, too!"

"Girls!" interrupted a sharp voice. "_Allez, allez, allez_! _Maintenant_!" The ballet mistress rapped her cane on the floor, and the ballet rats all scrambled away, toward the auditorium. She gave the reporter a scrutinizing look before passing him. No, this woman was not the cool, dark Madame Giry he had encountered.

_Dead. _

The thought came again. So there were several ghosts in need of explanation. The Angel in Hell, the former ballet mistress, and the Phantom of the Opera.

Where do I go from here? he wondered. Then, he knew.


	3. Faces

He idly swirled the remaining brandy in his glass as he hunched over the hundreds of daguerreotypes littering the tabletop. He lit another lamp.

The Academy archives had once again opened their doors—and vaults—to him generously. The thick glass photographs were blurry and some were terribly scratched, but Gaston's eye roved tirelessly for the one face he could not forget. Hers.

Yet, with a chance and perfunctory glance, he found a pair of cool eyes gazing at him. A woman in her early middle-age years, with a very erect poise and serious expression; dressed in pristine black, and carrying a short cane, her hair intricately plaited in a long braid over one shoulder. Younger and somehow newer-looking, Gaston immediately recognized Madame Giry. He searched for a name on the corresponding list, until he found Madame Marie-Louise Giry, ballet mistress. He checked the dates; yes, she was employed during the years of the "strange affair." One child; a daughter named Marguerite. The woman died four years ago.

Gaston shivered, despite the temperature of the archive, and the additional warmth of his drink. He turned the page.

An address?

Yes, there was an address for a Madame la Baronne de Castelot-Barbezac ... who, in a portrait beside her mother's, looked to be a pretty young girl with sparkling eyes and soft blonde hair. This must be the daughter, Marguerite! Swiftly, Gaston scribbled down the address, intending to send the Baronne a polite letter of inquiry.

It was, once again, getting late. He thumbed through the thick index, all the way to the end where, in small, neat handwriting, someone had written, "Note: here follows the list of missing portraits."

Gaston pushed his spectacles up onto his nose, and bent closer, realizing that his pulse had taken a wild turn. There were two names listed. But it was no use; someone had accidentally smudged the ink before it dried, and all that was left was a blurry series of letters. He leaned back in his seat, and closed his eyes briefly. His gut was telling him that this was important. He knew that one of the missing portraits would certainly show him the mournful ghost of Dressing Room Six.

He gathered up his belongings, and put away the multitude of daguerreotypes. Carrying his portfolio tucked tightly beneath one arm, he strolled down the wide hallway to the lobby. He was about to call out a "goodnight" to the staff, when something caught his eye.

An ensemble portrait. The whole opera company stood gathered on a stage, some grinning and looking exuberant, some looking placid. Moving to take a closer look, Gaston noted the over-done, opulent costumes. Very Meyerbeer-like. In fact, he recognized it; it was _Hannibal_ by Chalumeau. There was a mechanical elephant behind the cast. Tall, proud Signora Carlotta Guidicelli stood center-stage, flanked by stout Signor Ubaldo Piangi, who had died untimely, shortly afterward. The chorus was somewhat ridiculously dressed, and the ballerinas scantily-clad. Off to the left was pretty _Petite Giry_, and farther to the side was her stern mother.

And there _she_ was, right beside Little Giry, dressed in the slave-girl costume, brunette curls drawn back from her face. She was one of the serious-looking members of the group, except for a tiny, secretive smile. Gaston stared. A chorus girl?

"We're nigh on closing for the night, Monsieur," warned the aging Chief of Surêté, approaching him.

"Yes, thank you. I will be leaving shortly. Tell me, monsieur, what do you know about this portrait?" Gaston indicated the portrait casually.

"This one? Why it's the old cast's production of _Hannibal_. A stupendous triumph it was!"

"I'm sure La Carlotta was _magnifique_."

"Carlotta? No, Monsieur, it was the Vicomte's future wife who performed the lead."

"Whom do you speak of?" He kept a calm demeanor as the journalist in him was screaming, _A lead!_

"Why, the Opera's patron, the Vicomte de Chagny. A few months after her great triumph, they were engaged, and they wed right after the—" The poor old man suddenly stopped short, as if he had caught himself chattering on a forbidden topic.

"After the chandelier incident?" Gaston prompted quietly.

"_Oui._ Yes, and they left Paris. The De Chagnys have an estate north of here."

"Oh? Whereabout, Monsieur?" Gaston quickly jotted down the information, thanked the old man, and absently stuffed the slip of paper into his coat pocket. Perhaps this patron may recall a beautiful young chorus girl ... with a voice that did not belong to this world.

He hurried out, intending to go home for the night, but his feet turned him in a different direction: the opera house.


	4. Prudent Silence

The opera house was silent and dark.

_Odd_, Gaston thought. _Where are the live-in staff? The stagehands, scene-shifters, ballerinas, singers...? _Not a creature was stirring. He went to the front doors, hoping to find a security guard to let him in. But hope drained away as he peered in through the windows and saw no one about. He raised his fist to knock softly, but just as he cocked his forearm back, the door swung open slowly.

_Mon Dieu,_ he thought. _Is this an opera house or a haunted house?_

Something inside told him it was both.

There was something downright eerie about the unlit foyer. The sickly-pale moonlight fell on the golden cadelabra statues, who just now looked hideously contorted in their half-nakedness. The dark balconies were like the staring eyesockets of a skeleton, and the stairs themselves looked twisted, mocking.

Gaston shook his head. Such thoughts were ridiculous! Here he was, a distinguished journalist, afraid of the dark! He, who had stood upon Vesuvius as it erupted. Who had watched the riots in Fez, and the Black Sea mutinies! He held his head high, and moved toward the manager's office, refusing to give in to a childlike fear.

He changed his mind as he saw a flash of old black taffeta in the moonlight. Instantly, his heart began to beat erratically as he followed it, compelled as if by magnetism. He couldn't tell if it was Madame Giry or not, but doubt never entered his mind. After several strangely-long minutes, he recognized his path as the one that led to Dressing Room Six.

When he reached the French doors, he gasped. They were painted cherry, fresh-looking, with polished brass and ivory hardware, and a key tied with a heavy tassle lay lodged in. He took a deep breath before pushing the door open.

He was instantly bombarded by a wave of floral perfume. The room was lit by glowing candles, giving it a deceivingly warm appearance. But what they illuminated shocked the reporter.

Everything looked new, from the burgundy wreath wallpaper to the various containers of makeup on the vanity table, the velvet seat, paintings, trinkets, the changing screen...But almost every bit of free space was occupied by flowers. There were massive bouquets of soft pink, peach and white roses, lilies, carnations, and many other floral arrangements. The air was filled with their heady scents. Cautiously, Gaston stepped down into the room, the flowers almost making him nauseous.

His eyes were drawn to the full-length mirror, where he noticed, lying at its foot, a single long-stemmed red rose of a marvelously-deep shade of crimson. Among its delicate green leaves was a black satin ribbon.

Gaston was compelled to pick it up. It was so immensely lovely, he felt he simply could not let it lay on the carpet, discarded and forsaken...

Just as his fingers were about to touch the shining black ribbon, he felt a breath of iciness on the back of his neck. _She _was here.

He straightened and looked over his shoulder, prepared to ask, "Who_ are _you, Mademoiselle?"

But his voice would not function when he saw her. He was struck by her beauty, hypnotized when she captured his gaze with her deep brown eyes. She stared at him as blankly as he stared at her, then she moved. She walked past him as if he wasn't there; she bent, and picked up the rose, bringing its silken petals to her face, and inhaled its rich perfume. Gaston didn't dare breathe as she brushed the blossom against her cheek, and smiled to herself. It was the same secretive smile he had seen in the _Hannibal_ ensemble portrait. He looked back at the mirror, feeling like a voyeur watching her stare at the ribbon-bound rose.

Then she screamed.

A horrid, anguished scream that pierced all courage in the famous reporter, Gaston Leroux, raced down his spine. He jerked his head toward her, just in time to see the scarlet petals of the rose crumble, as if by an invisible hand, and fall to the carpet. Horror swept over her features, and she dropped the stem, backing away. Tears filled her eyes, and she brought both hands to her mouth, whispering, "_No ...no...I_—"

Gaston wasn't completely sure why he was back here, in this cold and lonely little place, that all at once made his throat ache with desolation.

But an icier fear washed over him when she turned her dark eyes on his trembling form.

He swore there was something like pure fire in her eyes when she shouted, "Get out―forget me, forget all of this! Leave me alone, forget all you've seen. Go!"

"Mademoiselle, I—"

"Leave me here; swear to me never to tell the secrets you know of the Angel in Hell! Go!" she cried, her voice full of wrath; she snatched his portfolio away fiercely. "_Go now, go now and leave me_!"

He stumbled as he tore into the hall. He gasped for breath, but found the air thick and dense.

All around him, the opera house seemed to burn. Flames licked the walls, and smoke filled his nostrils. Blazing heat chased his back as he burst out the door and ran into the dark streets. Breathless, he spun around and stared back at the grand building.

It was silent and dark.


	5. Journey to the Cemetery

_Author's Note: Hi there! Welcome to thedoozy of achapter; here is where tons of backstory is revealed. Warning: Raoul and Christine are somewhat OOC. (If you were confused by Chapter 4, just know that the Opera Ghost showed her power with illusions, making her dressing room look new, and making the operahouse appear in flames.)Enjoy! Don't forget to review, SVP! Also, this is not the end! _

_

* * *

_

* * *

Gaston sat forlornly on a bench in the Tuileries. The morning sunlight warmed him, but he felt chilled and desolate inside, with his exhaustion catching up to him. He couldn't face the dressing room again, and he had lost all his information. 

"Do you have a pen, Monsieur?"

Without looking up, he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew his pen. But in the process, a half-crumpled slip fell to the ground. He bent and picked it up quickly before handing the pen to the inquirer. He looked up.

And met the cold blue eyes of Madame Giry. She gave him only a slight smile, and handed him back his pen. "The cross under the hill."

"Pardon?"

"You heard me, Monsieur. Now go."

He peered at the address written there. The De Chagny estate.

* * *

The ride north was uneventful. In fact, Gaston did his best to nap on the way, but was plagued by what seemed to be waking dreams of living corpses and violins. Of fire and roses, broken glass, and above all, her. The Opera Ghost. 

He laughed dryly. Funny how he had once thought the Phantom of the Opera was a man. A _living _man.

Sleep finally overtook him, and he could later recall little of the train ride.

* * *

The De Chagnys were less than helpful. Once they learned of his investigative intentions, they promptly asked him to leave, and delve no further into their affairs. He walked away with a sigh, and headed straight to the nearest church, where the priest, charmed by Gaston's affable and perfectly-polite, respectful manner, let him into the records. He had looked at the local burial records, finding the De Chagny plot easily. 

At the foot of a gently-sloping hill lay a small, plain wooden cross, painted white. He peered down at it doubtfully. This simply could not be the grave of a noblewoman, the wife of the Opera's patron! Especially with all the elaborate stone tombs, bells, and sculpted angels just up the slope. This little cross would rot and fade away soon, leaving the mortal remains of whoever was buried there to be forgotten by time. There was no name, no dates, nothing to identify this poor person. But it was within the reaches of the de Chagny plot. The outskirts of it. And Madame la Vicomtesse de Chagny, wife of Raoul de Chagny, was unaccounted for. All the dates matched up. Raoul le Vicomte was the Opera's patron at the end of the Phantom years.

He dropped to his knees before the cross. _Who were you?_

"Are you here for her, as well?"

The voice came from down the hill. Gaston watched as a figure moved up the shallow incline, dark against the sunset. She was a young woman, pretty, in a country-maiden sort of way, dressed neatly in blue so deep it was nearly black, with a pale lemon shawl over her shoulders. She carried a small bouquet of yellow roses. "I bring her these every year. What brings you, good Monsieur?"

"I—" Gaston paused. The girl looked at him expectantly. "I am investigating this grave. Is it not unidentified?"

"Well, yes and no. It's not marked, but there are a few who remember _her_." She pulled her shawl closer.

"Are you one of them, mademoiselle?"

She laughed a low and melancholy laugh. "_Non_, monsieur, but my mother did. All the stories I've heard were from her. _Maman_ was one of her maids."

"Won't you tell me what you've heard, Mademoiselle—?"

Suddenly, her serious air broke, and she smiled. "Delamer. My name is Danielle Delamer. As I said, I bring her yellow roses every year. But this year, I'm afraid it will be my last. I am departing this week for Québec; my new employer is a professor at the _Université_ McGill."

"I'm Gaston Leroux. I am working on a report looking into this woman's death." He told the half-truth confidently. "Who was she?"

"Madame Christine la Vicomtesse de Chagny, _née_ Daaé," said Danielle very matter-of-factly, tempered with reverence.

_Christine._ He had a name for her now. "What happened to her?"

Danielle began her tale haltingly. "She married the Vicomte Raoul at a young age; and they seemed very happy. But after some time, she began to have nightmares. The whole estate would hear her screaming at night. It got to the point where her husband began sleeping in another room. Everyone said she was hiding a great and terrible sin, for she cried out to an angel to save her.

"This was all at night. During the day she was fine, very sweet, and very pleasant, but no one could look at her the same after hearing her night-calls. And Monsieur Raoul, well, he tried to love her the same, but day after day a shadow grew between them. A suspicion in his eyes. He grew extremely protective and would hardly let his young wife out of his sight. He forbade the presence of roses. One night, a servant girl received a red rose from a suitor. Monsieur took one look at it, and took her into an antechamber. She came out a few minutes later in tears. She said that he had told her to get rid of the rose, or pack her bags and leave.

"Monsieur also forbade music in the household. Tensions escalated. Finally, they had an argument over taking a trip to Paris. My mother remembered Madame Christine brandishing a copy of _L'Époque_, and crying, _I promised him! I must go! Raoul, he's dead; he's dead, and it's all my fault! I murdered him!_ But Monsieur Raoul refused to let her go.

"After that...she lost her mind."

"How do you mean?"

"Standing long moments before her mirror...not to admire her reflection, mind you, but almost as if she was trying to find something behind it."

_Or someone_, Gaston thought grimly.

"She broke the ban on music, and when the Vicomte was away, she would sing. Ah, even I remember her voice, and I was but a little child at the time! Truly seraphic, Monsieur Leroux."

"She was sent to the Saint-Israfel Asylum. Maman swore she would never forget the last time she saw the husband and wife say goodbye. Monsieur Raoul was weeping; he made no attempt to conceal that. Madame Christine looked blank as a painting, sitting patiently in the carriage. He kissed her hands, and said, 'Goodbye, Christine, _mon amour_. Please get better. I love you.' She only looked at him, and answered in song: _In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came...that voice which calls to me and speaks my name_. He bade the driver to go. And that was the last we at the estate ever saw of Madame la Vicomtesse."

"Oh, we heard things. Monsieur Raoul visited her every other day. We heard that they had to keep her away from every mirror, for she would try to break them. She would sing all throughout the night. Ropes frightened her. So did boats." She fell silent.

"How long was she there?"

"Three months."

"Why so short? Did she recover?" Danielle gave him an odd look.

"She killed herself."

"How?"

Danielle looked slightly sick. "Must you ask?" she replied uneasily.

"I am writing a comprehensive report, Mademoiselle."

"All right. She killed herself by bashing her head against a stone wall. We heard that her last words were, 'I have no hopes to be saved.' "

"_Mon Dieu_," Gaston whispered. This was bad. And yet...the pieces were falling into place. His lost information...the picture of the chorus girl at the Academy...the Ghost herself...He could almost feel the story forming in his mind.

Danielle nodded. She knelt and carefully placed her bouquet of roses by the little monument, then crossed herself. She stood, and pensively brushed off her skirts.

She said warmly, "_Alors_, it's been a pleasure, Monsieur Leroux. I wish you _bon chance_ with your story. I hope I have been some help."

"I was on the brink of quitting, Mademoiselle Delamer, but thanks to you, I believe I can go forward once more." He paused, then added honestly, "You're a wonderful storyteller, Danielle."

She blushed and thanked him modestly. They shook hands and cheek-pecked, then she added quietly, "I hope she has found peace in death. She certainly didn't have it in life."

She did not notice Gaston pale when he muttered, "One can only hope."


	6. Perros and What Followed

_L'Hôtel Petit Oiseau _was charming and comfortable, a lovely country inn near the shores of Perros-Guirac. It was set in from the beaches, surrounded by evergreens and trees that were just beginning to bud. There was little snow left, and the air had the sweet, fresh fragrance of sea, spring, and rain. The sun had gone down, an orb of brilliant orange, casting ribbons of gold, rose, and pale violet into the sky, and reflecting on the sea. A beautiful sunset..._that she would never see._

Gaston sighed, leaning on the rail of his little balcony. The innkeeper was insistent on placing his Parisian boarder in their finest room. With one last look at the sunset, he turned away, and moved back into his room, shutting the French doors behind him, leaving the chilly sea breeze outside. He sat down at the desk, and rapidly wrote down Danielle's testimony on a blank page in his travel notebook.

Afterward, he noted: _Mademoiselle Delamer was tremendously sincere. The reaction of the De Chagny clan and the placement of her grave supports the shunning of a madwoman by a wealthy family determined to keep up appearances. However, now I have a name: Christine. At the time of the Opera Ghost, she would have been Christine Daaé._

Gaston was about to continue his notes when a sharp knock at his door caused a finely-formed letter "T" to morph into a scribble. He heard the chambermaid call, "Monsieur? Monsieur, dinner is ready."

"Yes, _merci_," he mumbled, closing up his notebook, and extinguishing his gas lamp. He straightened his jacket, ran his hands through his hair, and adjusted his spectacles. He then left his room, and moved down the creaking wooden steps carefully.

In the general room, a blaze was roaring in the fireplace, and guests sat about at tables. There was lively chatter and laughing children; the aroma of a fresh, homemade supper: roasted rosemary chicken and potatoes, green beans, cheese, and chocolate mousse for dessert. Served with the meal was a fine, vintage wine. Gaston felt more relaxed than he ever had in the city. He pushed his dishes away, and leaned back in the well-worn wooden chair.

"Coffee, Monsieur?" asked a very amused voice.

Gaston raised his eyes to see Danielle offering him a cup of fragrant, dark coffee. She wore a striped apron over her dark blue dress, and her hair was tucked back in a snood. "Please, Mademoiselle," he answered with a smile.

She bobbed a nod, leaving him with a small tray of sugar cubes. He happily dropped one into his cup and stirred it slowly, musing on the lovely country air of the north, the warmth of the place, and the good feeling of food in his stomach. Truthfully, for those few moments, as he stirred his coffee, he forgot about _her_. His mind wandered back to the office, politics, and things of ordinary significance. In the light of the friendly fire, all thoughts of ghosts, madness, and opera slipped away. He spent a few hours chatting with the other guests about Paris and common things. Then, he lazily returned to his room, intending on turning in for a good night's sleep, recalling his past sleepless nights. But when he opened his door, he found the room to be cold.

Exceedingly icy, actually. And the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. _No. _

But as he slipped gingerly into the room, nothing happened. He half-expected to see the Ghost leap out at him, blood running over her face from the wounds on her head when she committed suicide. Gaston saw that his balcony doors were open; the drapes were floating in the gentle wind.. The room, however, was empty. He closed the doors and turned around. Nothing. He drew a deep breath, intending it to be a sigh, but held it when his eyes fell upon his open notebook.

Scrawled in red across a fresh page was one word: _GO!_

_Go?_ he thought, frightened. He drew closer. It couldn't be...Could it possibly be written in...blood?

"Monsieur?"

He whirled around. Danielle stood at the threshold of his open door, bathed in the light of the corridor. She had removed her apron, but did not enter his chamber.

She spoke in a low voice. "My mother was not very rich, Monsieur. And my father is dead. But Maman was one of Madame Christine's friends. She left her something special; something that is currently in my possession. I had it shipped to my employer in Montréal, but I want you to take a look at it. _I think it's important_. Will you come?"

Gaston blinked. Montréal. Crossing the Atlantic? On account of a deceased madwoman? That was madness in itself! his rational mind argued. Reason dictated that he return to Paris and write something sensible for the paper.

But reason flew out the door when he laid eyes on the Opera's Ghost.

And Danielle put much weight into her words. Perhaps this _was _important. Something that would split the case wide open for him, like an Easter egg, and the story would be there for him to gather up and present to the public. That would be ... immortality.

Gaston Leroux, Parisian journalist, said one word: "When?"


	7. Notes

As it turned out, all the ships set out for the St. Lawrence were booked until the following week. Therefore, Gaston returned to the city with a heavy heart. He bid Danielle Delamer a fond farewell; she gave him the address of her employer, gathered her last things, and boarded the ship. The author booked passage to Canada for the next Thursday, resigned to pack his own things and endure the voyage.

Gaston stared out of his train car window at the passing scenery, then turned to writing in his notebook.

_I now possess the address of a Professor Edmond Lequesne, who lives in a district of Montréal called Westmount. There, I will find Mlle Delamer, and, hopefully something important to this case._

He paused, his pen poised above the paper, before continuing in a less-formal hand.

_I must confess, here, on these pages, that this story has captivated my imagination. I had gathered pertinent information all indicating that a flesh-and-blood man lived beneath the Paris Opera, and was the so-called "villain" in the tragedy of the theatre. (Though, of course, one must be wary of the definition of evil) However, I can find no surviving eyewitnesses, although the affair did not occur too long ago. This troubles me. There is an unspoken code of silence, it seems. So what could have happened to make the opera house burst into flames, that no one will speak of? I now recall an aged newspaper review of the Opera's performance of Chalumeau's _Hannibal._ It mentioned specifically a Mlle Christine Daaé, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, with a most glorious voice. The article mentioned in particular her sincerity, charm, and triumph in the Act III aria, "Think of Me." I have heard this aria, and find the lyrics very poignant, in regards to Mlle O.G._

Think of the things we'll never do;  
There will never be a day when I won't think of you.

_Transcribing that phrase just brought a chill up my spine; it is not cold in the car tonight. I can almost hear her voice ringing in my ears, forming those words._

Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade;  
They have their seasons,  
So do we.  
But please promise me that sometimes  
You will think of me.

_It seems quite unreal, my experiences of the past week, but they are undeniable. I have seen her; can I ever forget that sight? Her sorrow and hopelessness are forever etched into my memory. And thus it begs the question: Who is - _

Gaston stopped, and crossed the verb out.

_Who was this Angel of Music she spoke of...she pleaded, begged for. These were the mannerisms of a rejected lover! Poe attributed this title to the Angel Israfel, but surely she would not condemn her soul to an eternity of longing for a fictitious character out of a poem. Would she?_

_The question bothers me. Added now to Mlle Delamer's story; madness! There are undeniable connexions that cause me to find truth in her mother's account. The mirror, the singing, the ban on roses in the household. These things are connexions of the Ghost to the story, which, at the moment, seems to be a great mystery, a labyrinth._

_I shudder as I think of her death. No wonder Mlle Delamer was reluctant to tell me! What a horrible way to end a life! And such a short one! She couldn't have had twenty years. And to loathe life enough to endure such pain? "I have no hopes to be saved," she said. Such despair. How I pity the Opera Ghost!_

Gaston wearily set down his pen, and shut his eyes.

The wind outside seemed to sing in a soft woman's voice, _Remember me, once in a while...please promise me you'll try..._


	8. Unchanging as the Sea

Gaston, who considered himself a widely-traveled man, still thrilled at the sensation of crisp sea air against his face. He stood upon the starboard deck of the _Sarah-Emmeline, _a relatively-small French passenger liner bound for Québec. The afternoon was bright; the sky fair and cloudless, and the sea was calm. Craning his neck toward the east, he squinted through his spectacles, looking for land. The shores of Europe had vanished. For several minutes, Gaston imagined himself an explorer back in the fifteenth century, destined for the New World, a vast tract of mysterious land; with an endless horizon before him. But happy chatter and feminine laughter broke his reverie. He was on a steamer past the turn of the twentieth century, that was steadily gliding across the Atlantic Ocean. Within a week or so, he would be in Montréal.

The _Sarah-Emmeline_ was very comfortable, with a sense of Parisian elegance. He had a humble stateroom, and easily adjusted to life on board the ship. He ate dinner quietly in the dining room, occasionally striking up casual conversations with other passengers, discussing current events, businesses, Canada, and other things. A few spoke of his literary ambitions, mentioning their enjoyment of his novels. This gratified his ego, and put a satisfied spring in his step when he strolled the promenade deck.

After dinner, he donned his hat and warm coat against the cold Atlantic wind. He had been writing nonstop during the voyage thus far; combing his memory for his lost portfolio contents, taking down commentary on Danielle's tale, attempting to piece together a narrative. And when the sea rocked him gently to sleep, he fell into a dreamless torpor. The night-visions of walking corpses, crushed roses, broken mirrors, and the like had simply vanished. And part of him was grateful for it.

Gaston politely tipped his hat when he passed others, but for the most part, few passengers took the air on the boat deck at night. They retired to their chambers, socialized in the smoking room, and kept warm against the evening chill. Though it was early spring, the morning and nightfalls still clung to winter's frost. Taking even steps, he had almost reached the bow when he felt the peculiar sensation he associated with his haunting encounters. Yet it was different from the opera house and the graveyard. For, even when angry and manipulative, the Opera Ghost always had something vulnerable beneathher anger, in her eyes. But this, this was not melancholy or pleading...this was truly _threatening_.

_Danger._

One word filled Leroux's mind as he turned sharply and headed for the bridge. On his way, he pondered what to tell the crew: "There's a ghost that has followed me here and is going to do something terrible"? He stopped, and actually laughed out loud, hoping no one could hear him.

_Danger, Gaston._ The warning came again.

He was utterly ambivalent. Did he dare spread the warning? Or was his imagination getting the best of him?

_Dear God, am I going mad?_

The thought was cold and sharp as an icicle, cutting into him. Was he the one gone mad, imagining a Ghost when there was truly nothing but a creature of the imagination of the artists, the superstition of the managers, or a product of the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet, their mothers, the box-keepers, the cloak-room attendants, or the concierge. For several moments, he was paralyzed by doubt, a cloud of choking skepticism and self-berating.

This was interrupted when suddenly, the boat lurched to a halt. All of the electric lights went out, and the familiar hum of the engines stopped. Gaston swiftly changed his mind, and ran. But when he reached the bridge, he flattened himself against the wall adjacent to the port exit.

There was a flurry of activity inside the bridge; officers and other confused crewmen were bustling back and forth, snapping and taking orders, relaying their reports. The reporter listened to snippets:

"—still pumping coal—"

"—no response—"

"—looking into it now, sir!"

"—_très bizarre, si tu me demande_—"

"What's going on?"

"—the circuits yet?"

"Where's Desmarais, the mechanic?"

"— we drop anchor?"

"No, of course not! This will be fixed in no time."

"—them not to panic, we're—"

"Go check on the state of things in the engine room, Robert."

"Aye, sir!"

And with that, a lesser officer moved out with a purposeful stride, nearly plowing into Gaston. He said, "Monsieur, you should not be out here."

Gaston cut him off with, "What has happened, Monsieur?"

"Nothing major, sir. We are just experiencing some, ah, mechanical difficulties. Please return to your room and remain calm."

"Certainly," answered Gaston neutrally, watching the officer head off.

He followed him.

Gaston moved stealthily; he hadn't become a front-page scoop reporter for nothing. Officer Robert kept a brisk pace, but Gaston trailed his footsteps down the stern stairwell, a very plain and confined-feeling series of flights that led down the decks, becoming more and more spartan, finally simply plates of white metal bound in bolts and rivets. Robert paused before a forbidding door, before pulling it open firmly, and slipping in. This was the engine room, usually blasting the noise of the machinery bustling. Now, it was very quiet, save for a few men's distant voices shouting.

He drew a few breaths before trying the door himself. It was heavy, but it opened.

Inside, it was vast and dark, save for a few lantern lights. Gaston peered around, holding on tightly to a hand rail on either side of him, keeping his footsteps light and soundless.

A voice echoed up from all around him, _Fate links thee to me for ever and a day!_

He shivered; but then, feverish realization hit him like a two hundred kilo chandelier:

This was not a woman's voice—_this was a man's voice! _

It was a male voice, a soulful tenor singing the Wedding-night Song from _Romeo and Juliet_. Gaston had never heard anything in his life so irresistibly triumphant, so indescribably passionate. But simultaneously, he heard tones of forsaken yearning and bitter rage. While the Opera Ghost's voice enchanted him, this voice seemed to place him in an unbreakable trance. Without thinking or feeling, he moved deeper and deeper into the heart of the ship, forgetting about the crew, the cold sea, or being seen. The man's voice continued.

But something was stirring in Gaston; his mind was wildly trying to assert itself over the dreamlike state. Then, full of vibrato and a pitch to shatter glass, he heard:

_FATE LINKS THEE TO ME FOR EVER AND DAY! _

This voice he knew. It was _hers_. And the man's voice was silent, as if listening, before a resigned whisper brushed Gaston's ear: _You have brought me to that moment when speech disappears into silence...silence..._

And the electric lights snapped back on. Gaston blinked as the engines started up again.

"You! Monsieur! What are you doing here!" demanded the furious voice of Oscar Desmarais, the grease-stained chief mechanic.

Gaston looked down at him blankly. The journalist stood on the brink of falling off the suspended pathway into the abyss of whirling steel and iron.


	9. Still Pursue You

Only a couple of days after the strange power incident, the French craft, the _Sarah-Emmeline,_ arrived at the port of Montréal. There were still chunks of ice in the _fleuve St. Laurent_, and snow lingered sleepily on the ground, despite being nearly April. Gaston stood on the edge of the Place Jacques Cartier, eternally the observer, watching the bustle of business in the marketplace from behind his smoky breath. The feeling of solid, unmoving cobblestones under his shoes was a pleasant change. When the locals heard his sharp and precise Parisian accent, they treated him with great respect. The drawl of their Quebeçois lilt was warm, and gave the feeling of a country community, despite the sprawl of the city. Wrapped in his warmest wool coat, a grey scarf, and a black hat, he hailed a cab. He picked up his luggage, and boarded, directing the driver to the hotel he'd arranged a room in; the brief ride was fair. Gaston spent much of it peering precariously out of his window at the passing buildings and people.

So this was Montréal. The Canadian city was built up on a large island in the middle of the river, an island crowned by an imposing hill, Mount Royal, which earned the metropolis its name. Originally French, it was growing more and more English by the year. From the port, Gaston looked across the stretches of land toward the heart of downtown, where his hotel was.

On Rue Peel, Gaston found the magnificent Mount Royal Motel. It was grand and opulent, with shining marble floors, a grand crystal chandelier, and classic columns. He squared his shoulders, and approached the front desk. A friendly-looking receptionist greeted him bilingually, "_Bonjour_, hello. _Bienvenue_ and welcome to the Mont Royale."

"Bonjour, Madame. I am Gaston Leroux; I believe I have reservations for a private suite."

_"Bien sûr, Monsieur. Attendez un moment, s'il vous plaît."_ She opened a huge book, and flipped to the current date, then scanned the names listed. Suddenly, her finger stopped, and a displeased frown creased her brow.

"Oh dear," the receptionist said doubtfully. "I'm afraid I cannot find your reservation, Monsieur Leroux."

Numbly, Gaston said, "Are you sure, Madame? They were arranged last week."

She flipped over the pages, carefully scrutinizing each entry. "No. I am terribly sorry, Monsieur. We are, as you say, booked solid. There are several other hotels in Montréal, however. I'd advise you to check into one of them."

_"Merci, Madame_," he muttered.

Feeling his line of hope fading fast, he took another cab, giving the driver the address of Professor Edmond Lequesne. The carriage immediately pulled out of the Rue Peel, and turned west onto the Rue Sainte-Catherine. After several minutes, they were out of the downtown area, where most of the commercial buildings, cafés, restaurants and shops gradually faded into a more residential façade. Looking up the slope of the hill, Gaston saw elegant brick and handsome stone houses with iron handrails. The carriage pulled up one small side street, and came to a halt before a brick house with a green door and bay windows; the top edge of the building was adorned with a series of tiny turrets. Gaston slipped out of the car, and gathered his luggage, hoping this wasn't for nothing.

* * *

Madame Amanda Leonard Lequesne was a pretty Englishwoman with raven hair and large, pale blue eyes set in an ivory face. She was dressed in a simple gown of port wine taffeta, with a soft knit day shawl over her shoulders. She sat curled by the fireplace, reading a tattered novel.

"Madame?" Anne, the oldest of the maids, entered meekly, and added, "There is man here asking for Danielle."

"Danielle? What is the meaning of this?" She glared at the maid in question, who had been calmly dusting the mantle.

Confounded for a moment, she then remembered the forlorn man at the forsaken grave. "Oh, it's Monsieur Leroux! He's arrived."

"You cannot mean _Gaston _Leroux...can you?" Madame Amanda adored Leroux's works, and was waiting anxiously for his publisher to announce a new novel in production. But to hear that the French author was here, on her very doorstep...well, that was news indeed!

"Why, yes, Madame. He said I helped him get back on track with his current story." The new maid stood a bit taller with pride.

"Well, by all means, Anne, let the poor gentleman in! It's still plenty cold outside."

"Ah, Monsieur!" She had a very strong English accent to her French, but nevertheless, spoke the second language well, albeit with an effort. "Welcome to our home; I'm afraid my husband is at work this afternoon, and into this evening. He holds office hours this week at the university."

With a polite bow, Gaston managed to eek out, "Thank you kindly, Madame, but--"

"You simply _must_ come to _le bal masqué_ tonight! It shall certainly be a party of special magnificence!" Barely stumbling over her grammar, she spoke animatedly.

"But Madame," he answered feebly. "I have not a mask..."

"My husband has one lying around. Danielle!" she called.

The girl entered the parlour. "Yes, Madame?"

"Fetch this good monsieur my husband's masquerade mask. It's in his desk drawer, in the study."

Bobbing a curtsy, Danielle turned on her heel and walked down a narrow corridor. A mere minute or so later, she returned carrying a small black mask that covered the facial region mainly around the eyes, with ribbons falling off each side. "There you are, sir."

"Where are you staying, Monsieur Leroux?"

"I'm afraid, Madame, I haven't secured a place yet..."

"We can prepare the spare room in no time. I'm sure Edmond will not object."

"I don't mean to intrude on your household--"

"Anne, Danielle, please prepare the spare bedroom for our guest," Madame Amanda clapped her hands, half-commanding, half in glee.

Danielle spared him a slight smile as she left to climb the stairs. Gaston could only stand there, still gaping.

* * *

Madame Lequesne had donned a shimmering gown of silver silk; an elaborate silver circlet rested atop coiffed ebony curls, and a glittering mask completed her ensemble. To his surprise, Danielle had also boarded the carriage, in a simple black domino costume. She was going to be Madame's attendant. Gaston himself wore his dinner tuxedo, and clutched the borrowed mask anxiously.

Inside, the Mount Royal was splendidly lit and already the ball was in full swing. The hotel's wide, sweeping lobby made for a great ballroom under the chandelier, with the columns gracing the curved staircases. Couples were dancing in time to a jaunty waltz played by a string quintet. The music, the atmosphere, the warm lights, all of it was intoxicating. Laughter all around, rushed greetings, leering grins...

Gaston was helping himself to a glass of wine when he noticed someone who didn't seem to fit in with the masses. Immediately, now-familiar-but-still-unwelcome chills washed over him. The mask obscured his peripheral vision, but his eyes immediately locked onto her.

Standing by one staircase, was a beautiful young woman, with long chestnut curls adorned with pink ribbons and sparkling crystals. She was clad in a blushing rose-coloured ballgown trimmed with ecru lace and tumbling ruffles, and a pink silk rose tucked into the tiny waist. A delicate gold chain lay around her neck, but no pendant hung there. She wore a matching lacy mask over her eyes. She paused intermittently to look around her, searching the sea of smiles, the spectacle of faces. Then, she glanced behind her, and moved off.

And there, on the other side, was a formidably-tall man swathed all in the colour of fresh blood; scarlet velvet intricately embroidered with gold, perfectly-cut to fit his masculine form. A train of crimson falling from one shoulder. Tall black boots, black gloves, black cravat. Girt with a rapier at his side. A bone-white mask covered his face, like that of a grotesque death's head. He moved with a very deliberate, measured pace, just brushing the outskirts of the crowd. From within the skull's black eyesockets, a pair of eyes like green flames restlessly roved over the crowd.

Gaston ducked away. He desperately did not want to be seen by either of the two strange masqueraders.

He found a small alcove, where he proceeded to watch the two phantom figures move among the merrymakers. It was a terribly curious thing to watch; the drunken revelers dancing and chattering, oblivious to all but themselves. Standing about to watch and be watched. It was most disturbing to watch the man in crimson stalking abroad, and the wandering child, the girl glancing over her shoulder. To his dismayed shock, she very nearly met his gaze.

Gaston nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a touch on his arm.

It was Danielle.

"What's wrong, Monsieur Leroux?" She quickly looked in the direction he was facing, then turned to him.

"Those two there--the girl in the rose-coloured gown and the man dressed as Red Death! Just look at them, Mademoiselle Delamer!" He pointed discreetly.

"Who? Monsieur, there's no one like that here." Danielle cast him the same odd look she did at the Perros-Guirec cemetery. "Are you feeling all right, sir?"

"I'm fine; quite fine," he responded distractedly. Were they--? Yes, they were moving right toward each other! Unmoving, Gaston stared through his mask as the fragile-looking brunette and the man with the Death's Head slowly approached one another. Their steps were hypnotic; the journalist barely breathed. The pair were almost touching...

_...and passed right through each other!_

Gaston gasped. It was like a reflection on the water, only there were no ripples. Like two shadows, they continued moving; it was as if nothing had happened. Both were still seeking.

"Monsieur? Monsieur, answer me!" Danielle's calm demeanor was splintering around the edges.

"_Mon Dieu_..." Gaston was at a loss for words. Then, he gathered his strength and said quietly, "Mademoiselle... There is a story I need to tell you."

* * *

-

* * *

_(Another cliffhanger! Bet you were expecting it, though…Okay, so I've decided to start leaving author's notes now. (Forget being professional!) Henry, my temperamental 19th-century muse has demanded that readers review, or he won't give me any more ideas, and just sit around eating instant pudding and loudly sing Evanescence songs. AND you'll be stuck with a cliffy! So…please review!)_


	10. Shattered

After leading him out of the grand hotel, and into the chilly evening, Danielle walked with Gaston down the Rue Ste-Catherine to a quiet café, where they found a secluded table to set down their steaming cups. She stirred her coffee placidly, and said one word: "Tell."

Gaston had to admit it: Danielle was an excellent listener. Her eyes remained fastened to him as he carefully poured out his tale, beginning with the old stories he'd heard in his years as a drama critic, stories that the old theatre attendants shared in hushed whispers. That the newly-reopened Opera Populaire was cursed. That before it was burned, there was a horrific ghost that frightened the staff. That his realm of terror lay beneath, in the deepest cellars. That he had murdered an innocent scene-shifter and a singer. The prospect of a murderous spectre had intrigued Gaston, who immediately looked up every case of ghost research that he could, all publicly dismissed as fantasy crock. Ignoring the social brands, he read that most spirits were simply the dead who had left unfinished business in life. The need to fulfill a broken vow. After that, he had begun to frequent the Opera Populaire itself, undercover, striking up casual conversations with the performers, the attendants, and the residents. Long-passed-down tales filled his ear; of a man with a hideous face living in the cold, dank cellars, posing as a ghost. Of the sudden withdrawal of the opera's rising star to a noble's estate. Of the chandelier's fall. And the fire. There were no doubts any longer. These ghosts that had followed—or led?—him to Montréal were the key players in that story. But what were they doing still haunting the theatre, still haunting him?

"I don't know," he murmured helplessly. "I don't know what—"

"They want to be together," Danielle interrupted softly, every word deliberate and sure.

Gaston stared. Of course. Something his heart knew from the moment he saw her in the decaying dressing room; something his investigator's mind hadn't realized.

" 'I promised you I would return, _mon ange,' _" Gaston whispered. "She couldn't in life, so after death..."

"She fulfilled her promise," Danielle finished, still looking troubled. "But, then, why does she linger?"

"She's still not free. There's something else keeping her here. But what?"

Danielle only shook her head, staring down into her cup of coffee.

* * *

That night, a vivid dream visited the guest bedroom of the Lequesne household.

* * *

Darkness. Complete and utter blackness surrounded him. Then—

"—In your soul that the true distortion lies," her voice sang distantly.

And he watched what happened, with an odd, trance-like focus. The young Vicomte tied to the portcullis with a noose around his neck. The beautiful singer in a magnificent wedding gown. And the man he could only identify as the Phantom. His dark hair abruptly stopped growing on the right side of his head, where the scalp looked scarred. There was a small lump above his ear, and deep ridges ran across his cheek and jaw. The side of his nose was malformed, and a large bag lay beneath his drooping right eye.

Gaston could only watch as the Vicomte choked and gasped for air when the Phantom gave the rope he clutched a sharp tug. He could only watch as the ingenue betrayed both men that night. She told the nobleman she loved him, but her actions spoke otherwise. Gaston watched in wonder as she kissed the disfigured man, her hand reaching up to caress his deformed face. He knew it was a moment between lovers. Finally, he watched as the Phantom freed the others, stumbling blindly and sobbing.

Gaston saw a curious music box, shaped like a barrel organ, sculpted from papier-mâché, with a heavy, black monkey figurine perched upon the top. The monkey was dressed in fancy scarlet Persian robes, a turban on its head. It held shining brass cymbals in its paws, and swayed as it played.

He sat slouched, unspoken hopelessness weighing down upon his shoulders. Almost child-like, he stared at the music box, as if mesmerized by its whimsical, rhythmic chiming, listening. Then, he sang in a broken whisper; and Gaston felt his heart break.

_Masquerade... paper faces on parade... Masquerade... hide your face so the world will never find you..._

As his sorrowful song ended, he looked up to see her standing a few yards away, pity and sadness on her face. But something else, too; something more like a plea. A flickering flame of hope glimmered in his storm-green eyes as she slowly moved toward him. For just a moment, Gaston thought, please just stay with him. But instead, she pried off the enormous diamond ring, revealing a plain gold band beneath it. She took his hand, and placed the glittering engagement ring in his palm, closing his fingers around it with her own small ones. He quickly brought up his other hand to clasp hers desperately.

She froze, and let out a tiny, choked cry: _I_—_I can't. Erik, please..._

_Shh_, he replied gently. _Christine, you are free. But promise me one thing..._

_Anything, my Angel._

_I want you to promise me you'll come back... _His thumb stroked her hand gently, a reassurance to her unspoken question. _When I'm dead. You'll see it in the _Epoque_, and you'll find me right here; just bury me...with this ring, that, until then, you will wear. _

_I... _She visibly suppressed a sob, her eyes never leaving his.

_Promise me, Christine. _His haunted face and voice were so imploring that her eyes filled with fresh tears.

_I promise_, she murmured, almost too softly to hear. _I will come back, Erik. I will. _

_Christine_, he sang tenderly, full of longing, _I love you..._

He pressed a gentle kiss to the ring on her finger, then she slipped her hands from his, and turned away. He released a tremulous sigh, and shut his eyes; two tears tracked down his face, one over skin clear and smooth, the other tracing over marred flesh.

* * *

The next morning, Gaston didn't see the bright springtime sunlight. He sat in a dark cloud, scribbling in his notebook for hours. There were countless marks in the margins where he had transcribed the events of his dream. He strained his mind for every last detail of the cavernous grottoes, the expressions exchanged. He was late for breakfast; Madame Lequesne had gone early to call upon her friends, and her husband was already back at work at the university. But Danielle and Anne had been kind enough to save him some scraps: a hunk of baguette, fresh cheese, and a few apples. Yet his appetite, usually voracious, was utterly sapped. 

He was clumsily attempting notate the musical tones of the voices he'd heard when Danielle entered, picking up the carpets to shake out from the second-story balcony. She was in her usual maid's cap and apron, and showed only faint signs of wear from the masquerade's late night.

"I will bring down my mother's heirloom from the de Chagny estate now, Monsieur." He nodded, not bothering to watch her move quietly up the staircase.

Anne came in and brought him a cup of hot black coffee. He thanked her, and breathed in the rich, delicious aroma. His pulse picked up in anticipation as the steam warmed his face. Then, footsteps hurriedly made their way down the foyer stair.

Danielle had come down from the attic. But her haggard expression was not promising. Her eyes were wide, and alarm was etched across her face.

"It's gone," she said, her voice cracked.

"What is?" he asked groggily, struggling to sit up straighter.

"_Madame Christine's wedding gown!_ It's _gone!"

* * *

_

-

* * *

_Note: The ending part here was revised. Thanks Aliiak for pointing that out. Like I said, it was put together really quickly. Nade: schoolwork's such a pain, hmm?_


	11. A Living Bride

"We must get it back."

Danielle's quenched voice was immeasurably flat. There was no questioning.

Gaston nodded. After a few cups of Anne's strong coffee, and a quick, sunlit walk around the quiet Westmount neighbourhood, he was alert once more. The item in question was no small trinket. Danielle's mother, the infinitely kind and caring Madame Claudine Delamer, had been entrusted with Christine de Chagny's wedding gown. But the frock in question was not worn to any chapel.

Back in the parlour, Danielle said, "Maman told me a story about this dress once, Monsieur."

* * *

_Claudine had just put her child to bed. Danielle had been a curious little girl all day, but now she was exhausted. She lay tucked in bed with her favourite doll. The others were settling into the humble servant quarters talking convivially about the day's events. The stars twinkled insistently in the sky outside, and a tender breeze had sprung up out of the north. Claudine sat in her wooden rocking chair, fashioned by her husband, poking at the dying embers in her tiny hearth. _

_She was just about dozing when there was an unobtrusive knock at her door. She smoothed back her hair and gathered her shawl close. Approaching the door, she called, "Who is it?"_

_"It's me, Claudine," replied a young, musical voice. _

_The maidservant swung the door to her room open to find her mistress, Madame la Vicomtesse de Chagny standing there, a dark cloak over her shoulders, with a large hood over her chestnut curls, obscuring her face in ominous shadows. _

_"Madame!" she gasped. "I--you--what is the matter?"_

_Christine studied the older woman for a moment before asking, "May I come in?"_

_"Of course," Claudine babbled. "But I'm afraid it is not fit for a future countess, my lady."_

_The cloaked woman entered silently, and took a seat on a plain stool situated across from her servant's rocker. She took down her hood, and said, "Claudine... would you cast aside such formality--even for just a moment? For now, we are not a mistress and servant, can we be friends?"_

_Taking her seat again in the carved chair, Claudine only nodded. "Of course...Christine."_

_"Good." She smiled, but it was only for a brief moment before her dark eyes glimmered. "Oh, Claudine, I am afraid! So afraid..."_

_"Of what?" Though her own daughter was just a small child, Claudine's maternal instincts made her lean forward to take Christine's slender hand. It was cold as a corpse's. _

_"I--_Mon Dieu_, how to explain? I think I am going mad." She spoke low, but her words were brimming with anguish. She went on. "I can't tell you why, but my hold on sanity is slipping away. I can feel it. There's a voice chasing it away; it's a guilt heavier than anything I thought I could possibly feel... Claudine, I must a favour of you now, before it's too late."_

_Her mind screamed to protest, to demand explanation. But it was her heart that spoke when she said, "What do you need?"_

_And from the folds of the immense midnight-blue cloak came the dress. Claudine had never seen anything so elegant, layers after layers of lace-edged ruffles that flowed into a train, a deep drape in the front, intricate embroidery that must have taken hours on the bodice, and delicate sleeves. But there was water damage to rich fabric of the skirts. Claudine bit back her questions. Instead, she whispered, "Lord, this is beautiful."_

_Christine nodded. "Yes." Then grief contorted her features. "Please, Claudine, for me... keep it safe. Keep it hidden from Raoul. I was supposed to have thrown it into the fire when first I came here. I couldn't. It--it was made for me."_

_"All right." Hesitantly, she took the gown, careful of the train, and hung it in the armoire, shutting the doors firmly. _

_"Thank you," Christine said sadly, staring at the glowing fire.

* * *

_

"Maman didn't tell me this story until I was about fourteen. But one thing I remember I overheard, for I was woken by the sound of the armoire shutting, was Madame Christine saying, _'At the heart of a wedding gown is a vow.' _"

Gaston jotted it down swiftly, looking over the form and curve of the letters. "Where do you think the gown could have gone?"

"_J'sais pas_," she admitted. "I don't know. No one in the house could have taken it; I've seen every inch of this dwelling, and there's nowhere to hide it."

"Perhaps this is the work of the ghosts?" he suggested.

"No."

"No? Why not?"

"I just _don't feel their hand in this_."

Gaston stopped taking notes and stared at her. She was, as usual, quite serious and calm as a winter's morning. She shrugged. "This is human intervention, trust me on this."

The wheels in his head began to turn; thoughts grew. "Then, the disappearance must go back. What company handled the shipping of your things?"

"_La Reine _Shipping Line. Do you think it was taken during the voyage?"

"It's worth looking in to, I'd say," Gaston said.

* * *

Not a half hour later, they were passing through downtown. The quaint shops were open, and delicious early _déjeuner_ aromas wafted from the bistros and cafés. Danielle needed to pick up a few things from the markets before heading to the Vieux-Port and the offices of _La Reine_ Shipping. Stopping at a fabric supply shop, she said, "This will only be a moment, Monsieur. Anne asked me to pick up a few skeins of yarn for a new shawl." 

Gaston nodded. It was a lovely day, bright, and seasonably warm. The old snow banks were melting away, running in a cool stream along the sidewalks. As Danielle considered a few soft cotton skeins, Gaston walked the span of two stores down, sniffing at the scent of fresh bread and pastries. But then, a quick figure caught his eye. Warm brown hair flashed in the sunshine. The sparkle of crystals and flash of pink ribbons. Without thinking, he followed her as she dashed across the busy street. Angry drivers leered out of motorcars and horse-drawn carriages alike, shouting at him in English and French. He ignored their bruising remarks, trying to keep his eye on the petite pink-clad apparition.

From far away, he heard her singing:

_Look for me in the white forest hiding in a hollow tree...  
__Come find me..._

Luckily, she did not go far. He watched her enter a little shop called _Le Forêt Blanc_. As soon as she vanished from his sight, he remembered Danielle. He jogged back to the fabric store, where she was gathering her parcel, and pushing the door open. "Monsieur Leroux? You look as though you've just run around the block a few times!"

She raised an eyebrow when he said, "I nearly did. Tell me, Mademoiselle, what does the store _Le Forêt Blanc _sell?"

Danielle chuckled, "Now, what would you require of--" Realization dawned on her as she gasped, "--bridal dressings?"

They quickly and safely made their way to the shop, which had an elegant window display of gauzy veils, kid gloves, and white frocks of the latest fashion. As they pushed the door open, a bell jingled. There was a handful of women browsing like cows in a field, running their hands over the imported lace, the stitched-on pearls, the silken embroidery, shimmering organza, and rich satin. Gaston and Danielle began to search for the ivory gown that belonged to a ghost.

"Bonjour, Monsieur, Mademoiselle. _J'peux vous aider_?" came a friendly female voice from the main counter.

The author and the maid exchanged a glance. "Yes, actually, I am looking for a gown of a specific style... maybe around 1870's style...a ruffled train, a front drape, princess bodice? Have you anything of that nature?"

The saleswoman's welcoming face closed slightly in foreboding. "I'm afraid we don't carry anything like that here, Mademoiselle."

Gaston spoke up. "We'd be willing to pay handsomely for such." He absently lifted up his purse of money, giving it an enticing shake.

Suddenly, from the back room, a man emerged. He was clean-cut, well-dressed and fit, but his eyes held a seedy glint. "Well, Monsieur, we did just get a new arrival, from France. It's a beauty, if a bit antique. Care to try it, Mademoiselle?"

But before Danielle could speak, a girl who was admiring the jewels in the glass case to the side, perked up. "An antique gown? Oh, Maman, I've always wanted a gown of the old fashion! Please, Monsieur, may I try it as well?"

The girl couldn't have been a day older than seventeen. She had flaxen hair and sky-coloured eyes, a soft flush to her face, and and youthful eagerness akin to a happy puppy. Her mother, an extravagantly-dressed woman, came up behind her and said, "Does the couple mind, Lucie?" She gave Danielle a scrutinizing glare from her humble calico dress to her dust cap.

Danielle blushed furiously. But she forced a smile, and said, "Go on, Mam'selle."

The saleswoman left the man out front while she led Lucie, her mother, and Danielle to the back room. Gaston began to follow, when a customer stopped him with, "Ah ah ah, Monsieur! You must not see your bride's gown until your wedding day."

* * *

The back room held three full-length mirrors in gilded frames, a seamstress' stool, and two chairs. The walls were covered in peach-tinted drapes. The saleswoman--a Madame Gagnon--opened one of the curtains, revealing a changing area. Danielle took a seat in one of the overstuffed armchairs, resigned to watch. Lucie was beaming, and her mother wore an expression of practised patience. After several moments of awkward silence, Madame Gagnon return, carrying a grey dress bag. Danielle's heart picked up its pace at the sight of the shapeless sack. She remembered her doubts, and waited as Mme Gagnon drew the curtain, leaving the girl and her mother to themselves. After some excruciatingly long minutes, pretty little Lucie Morneau emerged from the pale curtain. 

Danielle choked on her gasp. The gown was even more beautiful than she remembered. Yet it was smaller. The waist was so tiny! It looked as if Lucie would be pinched in half. Her bare shoulders looked plump. And there was something else different, too.

There was no water damage. It looked as new as if they had just received it from a dressmaker in France. The ivory ruffles and damask silk was perfect.

Lucie lifted the skirts carefully as she stepped up onto the stool to look at herself in the mirrors. She turned this way and that, grinning. "Maman, this is the one. I love it. Do you think Alain will like it?"

Madame Gagnon wore a matching grin. Danielle could almost see the woman's triumphant glow of profit. But she blinked when Lucie added, "The only thing is...it's a bit tight. I'll need it altered."

Her mother scoffed, "Come now, Lucie. It would fit if you would lay off those Swiss chocolates!"

The girl insisted, "Maman, could you unlace the stays? It's just--so tight."

Mme Morneau sighed, and untied the lacing up the back. "There. Is that better?"

"It's not funny, Maman! Stop tightening them! I--I _can't breathe! Help me_!"

"What are you talking about?" Quickly, she unlaced the back of the gown completely.

"_I can't breathe_," Lucie gasped. Her face was white, and slowly turning mauve.

Danielle rose. She called for Mme Gagnon to fetch help immediately. As the portly woman left, she turned back to the young blonde swaying on her pedestal. But a paralysis of amazed horror swept over her.

In the mirror, pretty, frivolous fair-haired Lucie Morneau was gone. Instead, standing erect in the gown, was a serious young woman with the eyes of a wounded doe. She had a mane of brown ringlets beneath an immense veil, and a slender dancer's physique. The gown fit her perfectly, but the skirt was dripping wet. Her pink lips parted, and a dark whisper brushed Danielle's ear: _Turn around and face your fate!_

The vision passed, and Danielle blinked, to find Lucie fainted, and her mother in tears. Mme Gagnon returned with a glass of water, saying that a physician was on his way. The women flicked water at Lucie's face until she revived. Her first words were, "Oh, Maman, not this one! I--I'd never felt so broken-hearted! Not like in this gown!"

And she burst into tears. In her chemise and corset, Lucie was led by her mother back to the changing chamber. Mme Gagnon looked doubtfully at Danielle. "I don't suppose you want to try it on, Mademoiselle?"

"No," she answered truthfully. "But I'd like to purchase it."

* * *

Buying the gown was surprisingly easy. After the ordeal with Lucie, the owners were more than glad to be rid of their "antique" frock. 

"Thank you, Monsieur Leroux."

"For what?"

"For purchasing the gown. I know it's the one, and there's no way I could have afforded to get it back."

"Ah, _laisse-le tomber_, Mademoiselle," he said dismissively. Then, he muttered, "But now what? We have the gown. Does she want it back in Paris?"

As Gaston continued to mutter and question no one in particular, something tugged at Danielle.

_At the heart of a wedding gown is a vow..._

_I promised you..._

Suddenly, she opened the dress bag, and felt along the inside of the top of the bodice with her fingers. Gaston broke off in mid-rant. Then, she found it. A small, sewn-in pocket, that would have rested over the bride's heart. She gently slid her fingers in, and withdrew something that glinted in the afternoon sun:

A plain gold ring.

* * *

-

* * *

Author's Note: _A little confusing, I'll admit, but things are like that when a story writes itself. The ghosts could have kept the gown in France, but there _is_ a reason why Leroux's in Montreal, I promise! Maybe this will all make sense by the epilogue. Anyway, thanks for reading. Review if you want more. The Ghost's snippet of song is from "My Last Breath" by Evanescence._


	12. Finding a Beast

Danielle was busy that evening helping Anne McTalley, the other housemaid, cook supper. The Québec air outside was rapidly cooling off from the delightful warmth of the daylight hours to a wintry bite. Soon after Gaston and Danielle had returned to Westmount, Professor Lequesne came home from McGill University down on Rue Sherbrooke.

Professor Edmond Lequesne was a gentleman a few years over Gaston's age, who cut a rather imperial figure in his suit, with an aquiline profile, and well-combed, thinning hair. If his eyes would have been sharp or cruel, he would have retained the air of a hunting hawk. But there was a gentle kindness around him that made him popular with the students; an easygoing attitude that was wonderful in a teacher.

Gaston immediately rose from his seat, and cleared his throat, beginning, "Monsieur, I wish first of all to thank you for the hospitality of your home, and to apolo--"

The master of the house took Gaston's outstretched hand in a gruff-but-friendly handshake. "Make no mistake, Monsieur Leroux, you are most welcome here."

"I--well, _merci_." Gaston smiled. "I assume your wife has spoken of me?"

"I have heard much," the professor answered with a chuckle. "Amanda told me you are researching for a new novel?"

"_Oui_," the author replied, seeking in his writer's litany for a suitable explanation. Should he mention the ghosts? The Opera? The de Chagny case? In the end, he settled with a simple sentence. "I am writing the story of the Phantom of the Opera."

Edmond Lequesne's mellow smile fell. More sternly, he said, "So you say you're writing a story about _le Fantôme_, eh? Have you spoken with any of the eyewitnesses to the chandelier incident?"

Gaston raised his eyebrows in surprise at the man's sharp turn in mood. "No, Monsieur. It's as though they fear speaking of it."

The tall, thin man nodded. "Come with me. Let us go to the study to discuss more of this."

* * *

Down the hall of the first floor was the Professor's office. It was rather small, large enough for a decent-sized desk, two chairs, a lamp, a shelf of books, and a Degas-styled oil painting of ballerinas. He gestured to the brown leather chair, and started, "Do you know what I teach, Monsieur Leroux?"

"No," Gaston answered honestly, taking his seat, and watching M. Lequesne sit comfortably behind his desk.

"Music." He pushed aside a pile of paperwork, revealing a black violin case that had lain beneath them. "But I haven't always worked as such. Once, I was merely a young boy with a violin, under the tyrannous tutelage of Georges Reyer at the Paris Opéra."

* * *

_Edmond Lequesne was a young, bright-eyed boy with a beak-like nose and curly russet hair. He had an easy smile, and an attitude to match. He was always early for rehearsals, and practised meticulously on his new violin, a gift from his wealthy English grandmother. Reyer would never admit it, but he was pleased well with Edmond; the boy was a very promising performer, who took to _Faust_ like a _canard_ to water. _

_Outwardly, he scoffed at the stories that Buquet told the ballet rats; all of those living under Garnier's opulent and awe-inspiring roof knew of the infamous Ghost. The management spoke little of the whole affair, but did not hesitate to leave a monthly salary in his private box. Edmond's friend Pierre regularly made fun of the uptight and stuffy Lefèvre behind his back._

_The stories the staff told each other were fantastic accounts of well-dressed skeletons, echoing footsteps, and strange voices. Of faces framed with fire, and demons guarding the furnaces, that the very foundation of the Opera reached into Tartarus, and the Ghost had escaped and made his home in the cellars deep down below. Few ever dared venture deeper than the tiny chapel underground. And even then, only the devout or the fearless. Inwardly, he shivered when alone in the dark, and took to frequently looking over his shoulder._

_And then, his idyllic life at the opera house abruptly changed. Edmond had paid little attention to the new managers, or the triumph of a chorus girl. But at the turn of the new year, Reyer handed him a strange score. He read the title:_

Don Juan Triumphant.

_Inside, the music was twisted every way. Notes climbed and plunged over the lines like an intricate design, and a scrawling hand had written the lyrics of the libretto. He read them easily in conjunction with the music's melody; it was searingly passionate, and more complicated than any other piece Edmond had ever tried to play._

_He didn't know Christine Daaé. Not before the opening of _Hannibal,_ and not after, either. She was destined for the stage, after all, and he, for the orchestra pit. He only saw her during rehearsals once or twice. But one night, as he passed the dressing room that had formerly been that of La Carlotta, he heard her pretty voice singing quietly: _

I remember  
There was mist...

_Her song stopped him in his tracks. He listened through the cherry-painted French doors._

I used to dream he'd appear;  
Here in this room he called me softly,  
Somewhere inside, hiding  
In this darkness which I know I cannot fight,  
The darkness of the Music of the Night.

Can I ever forget that sight?  
I can't escape from him,  
I never will!

But his voice filled my spirit with a strange, sweet sound:  
In the night there was music in my mind...  
And through music my soul began to soar,  
And I heard as I never heard before.  
Yet in his eyes, all the sadness of the world...  
Those pleading eyes that both threaten and adore.

I know I can't refuse;  
He is all that matters--  
Wishing I could hear his voice again;  
He alone can make my soul take flight.

_But just as he was about to knock and politely inquire upon her, he heard footsteps. They sounded as if they were directly behind him. He spun around, and his eyes darted over the corridor. _

_No one was there. But the footsteps continued. He heard them pause in just the same spot where he was standing, then, continue and make the turn. _

_Edmond hurried away to his chamber that night._

_After months of practise, it was the opening night of Don Juan.

* * *

_

Edmond rose, and began to pace the hardwood floor. "If I live to be one hundred, I shall never forget the one and only--albeit incomplete--performance of _Don Juan Triumphant! _The police blocked every exit. They were plotting to catch the Phantom, whom everyone now knew was a living man who dwelled underground. The opera patrons were bewildered by the barricade. I was a lesser violinist of the orchestra, mind you. The overture was ...like something you hear in a dream. Impossible to comprehend, yet somehow you understand inside. And then there was the plotting of Don Juan to seduce Aminta, an innocent serving girl, by a trading of identity...a masquerade, of sorts. Signor Ubaldo Piangi disappeared behind the back curtain, and never emerged again. Mlle Daaé entered. She sang a lovely phrase...then Don Juan re-entered from the other side."

Gaston leaned closer. "Did you not just say that Piangi would never--?"

"At his first note, I knew it was not the stout little Italian. I could not see him clearly, as I was deep in the orchestra pit, but I heard him. His tenor was full and commanding in its raw passion. The composer had stripped away the excessive dramatics of opera, and laid out a haunting song of pure desire. As if such a song was the closest he could ever come to the sensation of making love. Denying a denial.

"But most shocking, of course, was Aminta's response.

"Her voice reciprocated Don Juan's passion note for note. It was truly amazing to hear innocent Mlle Daaé sing so rapturously. No amount of acting skill could have produced such a transformation, Monsieur. I never said anything afterward, but I believe ... she must have had a love affair with him."

Edmond paused. More hesitantly, he spoke again. "Then, the man's voice sang out of the libretto. We were confused. He sang so softly, but then his voice swelled with power, but it was also like a plaintive cry: _Anywhere you go, let me go, too! Christine, that's all I ask of--_ And then, chaos began. I could see Reyer's face, twisted in horror. The audience released a collective gasp. Later, I was told stories of how Mlle Daaé pulled off Don Juan's black mask and wig, and the face beneath was horrendously disfigured. I never saw it myself, though." He frowned. "They said it was like a skull with strips of rotting flesh hanging from bare white bone. A sunken eye... one man I knew even claimed that he had no nose! " He shook his head dubiously. "I heard the chandelier before I saw it coming down toward us. I dropped my violin; the two hundred kilo chandelier was crashing down upon the pit! I struggled against the paralyzing panic, and grabbed my score and violin, out of habit. I had been seated near the center of the pit, and as I tore from my seat, the impact just missed me. The chair where I'd been, however, was smashed and burned. The flames pursued me, but I ran. They licked at my legs and back. But I made it backstage, dropping my violin, but tucking the score into a pocket.

"Soon enough, in the pandemonium backstage, the actors, stagehands, and others were forming a mob to track down the murderer who had killed Joseph Buquet and Ubaldo Piangi. Before I could think for myself, I had a torch in my hand, and we were madly running down farther and farther into the depths of the opera house. Past the backdrop store, the fourth cellar, the fifth ... We reached the subterranean lake, and finally found an enormous cavern: a grotto carved out of the rock, if you will. Amazed, we found a full pipe organ, a bed shaped like a swan framed with lace curtains, an open coffin, a bizarre wax figure... and the mirrors. Dozens of large mirrors in gilded frames. All smashed and broken."

All these things Gaston pictured as they had been in his dream. He clung to Lequesne's colloquial words; another piece of the odd puzzle, the strange affair, was falling into place. But before he could say anything, Edmond finished his story.

"But what of the man we had been seeking so desperately? Not a trace. Some people I saw take some things, but I touched nothing. It was like desecrating a pharaoh's sacred tomb. I don't know how those modern explorers do it. It felt cold and-and _cursed_ there, like a mockery of life. Most of us left directly. And I, for one, never set foot back inside the Opéra after that night. I left the next day for England."

"You know it is restored," Gaston said tentatively. "Much of its former grandeur--has returned."

Edmond spared a glance at Gaston, brow raised, at the hitch in his voice. "Has it returned, indeed?"

From a locked drawer, Lequesne pulled a thin sheaf of parchment. As Gaston looked closer, he saw that some of them were half-burned, some scorched, some still smelling of fire. But the title was still clear on the top page: _Don Juan._ The retired musician handed the pages to the writer wordlessly.

The author made no answer, but stared down at the sheet music in his hands, reading the lyrics beneath the lines and notes. "I know little of musical notation, sir."

"Let me play it for you, then." Edmond deftly opened the black case, and removed his violin. After a few practise notes drawn out with the bow, he shut his eyes, and pulled the bow across the strings. Instantly, music flowed from the instrument, warm and golden.

Gaston listened, and felt himself slip away, just like when the man's voice sang from _Romeo et Juliette. _Intoxicated and mesmerized, he could only listen as the music wove a silken web around him. He could almost hear the lyrics, written upon the half-burned libretto:

_Past all thought of "If" or "When,"  
__No use resisting!  
__Abandon thought and let the dream descend...

* * *

_

-

* * *

_Authors Note: I hate this chapter so much! It took forever to write, and I know it sucks. My muse Henry took an unannounced vacation. -growls- The next chapter will be much better, I promise, my dears. _


	13. Nightingale

Dinner at the Lequesne household was a very casual affair; Edmond spoke of his students fondly, of his current lecture series, and the messy running-about of the McGill Administration. Amanda listened intently and gossiped easily about the neighbourhood. Gaston sat rather quietly, mostly lost in his own thoughts. It had been a day of discovery, most certainly. He now had a definitive account of the chandelier incident, something which had eluded him for many months. There were no doubts as to the authenticity of the Professor's story; he was an honest man, and had solid proof, in the salvaged score. Gaston had swiftly transcribed the lyrics of the libretto into his notes, remarking on it's advanced musical composition, and defiance of taboo. With his fork, he carefully poked at the hearty slice of savory meat pie steaming his spectacles enticingly. Once again, he found his usually-ravenous appetite diminished.

"Monsieur Leroux?" Amanda was asking insistently but pleasantly.

"Hmm?" Her voice shook him from his reveries. "I beg your pardon, Madame. What was it you were saying?"

She gave him an appraising smile, then said, "Has my husband told you he once lived in Paris? Oh, what a lovely city! I've only visited there once, as a girl. Edmond, dear, we should take a vacation there."

Professor Lequesne answered thoughtfully, "Perhaps our guest could recommend a hotel, or attractions to see. I hear the Opéra has been restored wonderfully. Isn't that so, Monsieur?"

Gaston nodded, a bit uneasily. Though his mind was far from the prospect of food, his stomach clenched, and the aroma of his meal made it no easier. After dinner, they shared the requisite cup of French coffee, and socialized by the fireplace. Gaston shared his experiences as a drama critic and world-wandering journalist; the latest news in Paris, and hesitantly described the sparkling restoration of the opera house. In return, he learned how Edmond and Amanda met a few years ago while he was in England, and she was a struggling London singer. Of their relocation to the New World, and how much of a blessing and a curse Montréal was. They adored their home city--it was a bustling center of business and culture, and they were quite comfortable there; but the winters were utterly brutal and merciless. Eventually, the Professor excused himself to look over some paperwork, and his wife busied herself with a book. Gaston took the opportunity to retreat to his room, give his notes a final scrutiny, and pack his things. His departure date was tomorrow.

On his way up the staircase, Danielle appeared at the top, face cast in eerie shadow. She still wore her plain housemaid's frock, but she had taken off her apron, and unpinned her hair. It lay now in a thick braid hanging over one shoulder. She was clutching her yellow shawl tightly. "Monsieur Leroux?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle Delamer?" She spoke low, but the urgency in her tone was unmistakable.

"Come quickly, sir. There's something you must see." It was only then that he realized she was breathing quickly, and her face was anxious or perhaps frightened. He followed her up the stair, turned right, toward the bedrooms, then to the end of the short hall. On an end table, she picked up a stoneware oil lamp, and lit it with a match that had been lying beside it. She pulled on a rope suspended from the ceiling. A trapdoor opened above them, and she lowered the ladder that folded neatly on it. She climbed up first, with the lit lamp, then beckoned for him to follow.

The attic was cold, and the darkness, beyond the circle of golden light from the oil lamp, was complete. He followed the small, flickering light blindly, as Danielle led him to a corner, where a mannequin stood blankly. The housemaid stopped, and held the lamp up. Gaston blinked a few times, then he saw that the faceless form wore the wedding gown found that very afternoon. Its silk and lace shimmered faintly.

She took a deep breath before speaking in a measured voice. "Now, remember this afternoon the gown was pristine. It looked new and sparkling white from sleeves to petticoats. Yes?"

"Yes."

"Look at it now." She knelt, and shone the light on the skirt.

He did. The skirts were stained slightly green, as if from murky lake water. The small train was even worse; an aged yellow-green, that somehow gave the frock a tattered appearance.

"Touch it," she breathed.

It was damp. Not sopping, dripping wet, but far more than just condensation-damp. Like the bride had walked into shallow water.

Gaston and Danielle at that moment felt chilled to the bone, even more so than the simple cold of the room. And like a prima donna entering exactly on cue, a delicate, feminine voice floated through the attic:

_I am trapped here, hardly knowing the reason why.  
__Think of me, think of me waking, silent and resigned,  
__Imagine me trying too hard to put him from my mind.  
__We had such hopes and now those hopes are shattered;  
__And now I curse the day I did not see all that my Angel asked of me.

* * *

_

Gaston was left with nothing to do but pack his things and bid farewell to the friendly Lequenses, beautiful Montréal, and Danielle, who had been integral to his understanding of the Opera Ghost story. He had his return ticket to France; his precious notebook was nearly full with details from his experiences--the masquerade ball, the wedding gown travesty, Professor Lequesne's tale--and he was feeling strangely weary. Gaston thought, _I am quite ready to return home_.

The day he embarked on his return journey dawned cold and damp. It was raining lightly. The snows had disappeared; and now a misty fog hung low over the river. Tiny raindrops pelted Gaston's black coat and hat. They stung his face gently; he breathed in the sea-salty air deeply. Carrying his luggage, he boarded the _Belle Emmanuelle_, and looked back to wave at Amanda and Danielle. They smiled--Amanda sweetly, and Danielle with a knowing look in her eyes--and waved, calling, "_Au revoir_, Monsieur Leroux!"

"_Au revoir_," he replied, softly. He waved, then turned toward the deck, and pulled something out of his pocket.

It was the gold ring.

* * *

That night, lulled to sleep by the gentle shifting of the ship on the waters of the Atlantic, Gaston dreamed again.

* * *

_"Good morning, Madame!" Isabelle Tremblay, a new nursemaid at the Saint-Israfel Asylum for the Insane, greeted cheerily as she entered the tiny chamber. "I've brought you a little something...something to brighten it up in here."_

_Eagerly, she produced a flower: a long-stemmed rose of deep scarlet; she had cut it especially for this beautiful young ward, stripping its thorns and trimming its deep green leaves. Isabelle held it out to her with a shy grin. To celebrate the arrival of spring, she had brought a vase full of roses (purchased from the local flower vendor) for each of the other patients. She liked pretty Madame de Chagny, who was around her age, and always seemed kind. _

_So she was stunned when the petite brunette let out a blood-curdling scream. _

_"Madame Christine—" Isabelle jerked back, hiding the rose behind her back. "What's wrong?"_

_The Vicomtesse had collapsed into a heap on the floor, sobbing wretchedly, "Can't you hear the nightingale? He's singing the night's own music, but _n-no one w-would lissten."

_"Listen?" The nursemaid repeated, confused. It was not midday yet; nightingales sang at dusk._

_The young ward raised her curly head. "Please...you must—you _must_ let me go to the Paris Opéra! I have to go. I cannot betray him once more!"_

_"I can't," Isabelle answered softly. "Perhaps your husband—"_

_At that, she laughed bitterly. "Perhaps my husband! Perhaps my husband will bring me more lilies this week, just like he did at my debut! The flower of death! Always the flower of death. Well, I shall see that it is fitting."_

_"Madame?" The nurse was alarmed._

_"Regardless, I _shall_ return to the Opéra. Leave me, Isabelle," she said with a secretive smile._

_"But Madame..."_

_"I have no hopes to be saved. Go now."_

_Isabelle did not learn until the next day that that afternoon, attendants found Christine de Chagny in the garden, beside the rose bushes, her face covered in blood. The Vicomtesse was cold and limp. She had committed suicide by striking her forehead against the stone wall. She was clutching a single rose; its thorns had dug into her hand, leaving bleeding cuts on her palms that stained the creamy white petals red.

* * *

_

-

* * *

_Note: I know, I promised this one would be better, and it's not. Sorry. I do love the dream sequence though; I have a new obsession lately with the legend of the nightingale and the rose. And "No One Would Listen" of course! A project of mine is to eventually transcribe the legend into verse. But anyway, I'm off-topic--review away, please!_


	14. Mortal Remains

"Monsieur Leroux?"

Gaston gaped. The woman standing upon his home doorstep was Madame Giry! Or―not quite. Her hair was pale gold, threaded with dove-white, and fashionably curled and coiffed beneath a wide-brimmed felt hat. She was dressed in an ornate traveling gown of delicate lavender velvet. But her face was almost sisterly to that of Marie-Louise, except for its agreeable and friendly air.

Cautiously, he answered, "Yes, Madame?"

"I am here to respond to your inquiry, sir." She held up a small letter, that Gaston barely remember penning.

"Ah, Madame la Baronne de―"

"Oh, please, Monsieur, call me Meg," she interrupted with a warm smile.

"All right...Madame―er, Meg. Please, do come inside."

He led her to the study, realizing that she was tailed by two nondescript porters, carrying a heavy, ancient-looking leather trunk. He drew in a breath at the sight of it. It's very presence seemed enveloped in mystery. He found it difficult to tear his eyes from the dull, stained, dark red leather surface.

Decorum screamed at him; he sputtered, "Can I offer you anything, Madame? Coffee?"

"No, no," she answered evenly and politely, glancing down at the trunk. "I really cannot stay. I have brought you my mother's old things ... things from the opera house. There are some artifacts in here that have been locked away since ... the night we left Paris. I can only hope you can extract the truth from all the legends and tales...something I myself can hardly do. Please, keep these items safe. Presently, I leave them with you for your investigation, sir."

"I―" Flustered, propriety left Gaston without anything to say.

"Please. I would like to know, as well. I... I lost a good friend in the circumstances." A look of sadness lighted upon her face, as she handed him a small, tarnished key. "_Alors_, I must go. My husband will wonder where I am."

"_Merci_, Madame." He saw her and the porters out the door, before shutting it decisively and turning back to the old trunk.

Lighting an extra lamp, he unlocked it carefully, his hands shaking with suppressed excitement. He was about to examine actual artifacts from the days of the strange affair! Instantly, he felt dread, triumph, and anticipation, much like an explorer on the brink of a major discovery. Or was he a tomb robber? He held his breath as he pushed the lid open, unsure what to expect.

Inside, it was lined with aged, print linen, and smelled musty. There were many piles of paper, tied with maroon ribbons. By the uneven way they were laid on the top, he could tell there were several other items hidden underneath. Gaston tentatively lifted a sheaf of papers. They were covered with small, neat handwriting. He glanced over their contents superficially: _The Devil's Child ...less than half a score of years... a dirty sack with eye-holes cut out ... caged like a beast..._ Beneath a few more sheets was: _...Cannot find him anymore ...deep in the cellars... stories of a ghost ..._ He gently pushed them aside, eager to see everything hidden away.

He saw a sheet of parchment beneath Giry's papers; it was half-burned and scorched in some places, and notated complicatedly in red ink. At the top was half of the title, in a familiar hand: _Don Ju__―_

Exactly like the score Edmond Lequesne kept in a locked drawer of his desk.

He reached back inside, and his hand touched something cool and smooth. Withdrawing his hand, he saw that his fingertips were blackened. Removing the object from the depths of the chest, he found that it was a sooty daguerreotype. Wiping it off with a handkerchief, he found himself staring at the face of a handsome, dark-eyed man with wavy dark hair. Turning it over, he read the name inscribed on the back: _Gustave Daaé._

There was the music box, half-buried by the documents! The monkey figure sat stoically, a mysterious expression on its simian features. Gaston gently opened the lid, and gingerly touched the ebony velvet lining. Without warning, a lovely melody started up. Hypnotized, he listened, growing ever more spellbound. He realized that the song was the same one from his dream, forever etched in his memory. He pictured the scarred, broken man, singing. Certainly a remarkable object like this, still in working order, belonged in the opera house vaults. He would ask Mme la Baronne to donate it later.

A mask.

Gaston stared down into the trunk, just beside the music box. It was a white half-mask, expertly formed of fine kidskin leather. It gleamed dully; it had graceful, sweeping curves on the cheek and across the half-nose, and a down turned brow. This gave its smooth blankness a stare of bitter anger. Everything in the chest had been touched by age, except this mask. It was still bright white, as if it had just been made, or purchased at a whimsical costume shop. He reached out to pick it up ... and let out a yelp of startled terror.

Within the eye hole, he saw an eye. There was a single eye staring up at him from behind the mask. It was stormy green, and veritably glowed with an intense gaze.

Quickly, Gaston threw the chest cover shut and backed away. _Non. C'est impossible._

Nevertheless, he did not dare open the chest again.

* * *

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_Author's Note: Sorry this chapter is so short! I wrote it a couple of months ago, when the story was originally outlined to be only seven chapters long. _


	15. Find Your Way in Darkness

A week later, Gaston was strolling leisurely towards the market to pick up a few provisions. He had spent his time writing incessantly during the daylight hours, and bracing himself each evening for the dreams that he both dreaded and thrilled at seeing in his sleep. However, none came. His life was slowly becoming more and more like it had been before the night he spent in a corner chair in an abandoned dressing room of the Opera. Madame la Baronne had returned for her trunk, and the writer watched it go, feeling perturbed, as if the green eye was still staring at him, still silently pleading with him.

It was a beautiful spring day in Paris. The trees were all in full bloom, the air warm and comfortable, and the sun was glorious: Apollo's chariot high above in the Heavens. Moving easily, Gaston found his feet taking him through the Tuileries, where many Parisians were already walking, chattering, or perched on benches, fully taken by spring fever. He paused for a minute, shutting his eyes and raising his face to the suns warm rays.

Red, orange, and gold swirled madly behind his closed eyelids. He inhaled the sweet fragrance of the floral air, then opened his eyes again. He was disoriented; brightness and contrast shot to Hell. And in the peripheral whiteness, he made out a figure not a few metres from him. A woman with impeccable posture, dressed in black taffeta that rustled in the breeze. As his eyes readjusted to the light, he met her cool blue eyes.

He jerked forward, but she held up a gloved hand, and said calmly, "Go the Opéra."

"What?"

"Quickly. You must go." And she turned away briskly, just as she had in the theatre's foyer that first time he saw her.

"Madame Giry," Gaston called out. "Thank you."

Casting a glance over her shoulder, she only smiled at him; then, she vanished. Before his very eyes, her seemingly-solid form dissolved into the atmosphere.

* * *

As Gaston made his way into the brilliantly-lit foyer of the Opéra, he saw a group of burly-looking men carrying some heavy equipment. Hammers, chisels, shovels, and lanterns. Many, many lanterns. Most of the men ignored him, standing stoically as their leader conversed curtly with a familiar face.

Monsieur Gabion, the acting-manager, broke off a rambling sentence he was spouting off to the tall man with a large lantern in hand. The manager greeted Gaston amiably with, "Ah, _bonjour, _Monsieur Leroux! How was your stay in Canada?"

Gaston replied distractedly, "Very good, _merci. _But what is happening here?"

"We are just about to bury the old phonographic records in the catacombs of the opera house. It's a routine descent," Gabion said dismissively.

"The catacombs...How far down will you venture?" A journey deep down below! Surely, this was an opportunity not to be missed! The foreman's response was heard through a fog of excitement and fear.

"Just above the fifth cellar, monsieur. We are to expand the storage facilities there."

"May I accompany you?" Gaston asked politely, slipping his hand into his pocket. Hidden by the fabric, he pressed his fingertips against the smooth curves of a tiny object.

The leader of the group gave him a quick, doubtful once-over. But Gabion said gaily, "Monsieur Leroux here is a great journalist. Surely he had seen perils greater than a little basement! Let him go with you, Monsieur Auclair."

Auclair lifted a brow. "Very well."

* * *

"The phonographic records are to go right here."

Jean Auclair halted directly in front of a wall made of stone bricks. He held his map of the subterranean passages in one hand, and his large lantern in the other. Victor and Louis were carrying the crates of wax cylinders, and looked relieved in the flickering light to set down their burdens. Jean ordered the others to begin tearing a hole in the wall, where they would eventually stow the crates.

It had been a long and trying journey down to their destination. A few stumbled along the way, and an impenetrable sense of dread and gloom pervaded their senses. Perhaps it was the darkness. Perhaps it was the silence. Perhaps it was simply the feeling of being beneath the ground, at the level of thousands of the dead.

The party made its way down to the third cellar scenery store place, and through what seemed like an endlessly long and winding passage. All the while, the air grew closer, colder, and increasingly damp. They could smell the lake, and hear its gentle rushing. Jean's infallible sense of direction led them with relative ease to the wall where the group stood nervously.

Jean repeated the order to several of the men to pick up their sledgehammers and get to work on the wall.

He didn't notice when the reporter that had meeklytailed his men wandered off.

* * *

At first, Gaston thought it was just the ringing in his ears from the impact of the men's sledgehammers pounding against the stone walls. But as he concentrated, he realised there was a different rhythm to it, and he heard a tune.

It was music.

Spellbound, he moved away from the workers quietly, leaving behind their boistrous noise and irritating shouts. And the music reached him like a dream.

First he heard the man's tenor, singing distantly. The words were at first too faint to make out, but as the author moved along, they gradually increased in volume, until Gaston distinctively heard an echoing song, aching desperation tinting the melody.

_Have you forgotten all I knew,  
__And all we had...?  
__You saw me mourning my love for you,  
__And touched my hand--_

_I knew you loved me then..._

Resonating silence. For several moments, Gaston froze, panicked. He was hopelessly lost in the labyrinths, alone, out of earshot of any living man. He stood in the darkness, clutching his lantern. Then, her dulcet voice rang out like a bell on a clear night:

_I look in the mirror and see your face  
__If I look deep enough..._

Gaston followed the song down a slippery, narrow corridor, until his hands, brushing the stone wall, felt a man-sized opening, like a makeshift doorway. He sucked in his breath and pushed his way through the rather narrow gap in the stone walls. He held his breath and listened against his heartbeat for a song, or a bodiless voice. Nothing but the soft whispering _shush_ of water. Cautiously, he lifted his dim lantern, and blinked as the abject darkness receded.

It was the cavern. He was in the huge grotto that had haunted his dreams. An alcove that may at one time have stored fantastic things, a shallow hollow that held the pipe organ. The bedroom, where a huge, metal swan-shaped bed still sat gracefully. Everything was coated in thick, grey dust. Fallen, tarnished candelabras, the broken mirrors, the organ, barely recognizable as a boxy shape with jutting pipes that had fallen down.

Shaking, Gaston tiptoed from his vantage point toward the swan bed. There, just as expected, was a corpse.

No, not truly a corpse... for all flesh had decayed. It was a skeleton that lay there upon the cold stone ground, undisturbed. The skull was normal-looking, save for the slightly-protruding right cheekbone; and the body lay half-curled, like a child taking a nap. The right arm was bent beneath the collapsed ribcage, but the left was stretched out--as if reaching out for something. Salvation. Honour. Retreating life. Memory. Hope.

_Love._

Gaston slipped closer to the bones. It looked like an ordinary skeleton, but he knew better. He knew who had lain there dying, clinging to a spider's silk thread of hope.

His hand trembling violently, he held the gold ring tightly, pressing it into his palm, and knelt beside the bones. He felt tears of pity pricking his eyes. Under his breath, he whispered softly, "I'm sorry. I know she was supposed to do this. Believe me when I tell you that she wanted to. She still does..."

Without wanting to disturb the bones, he slipped the ring onto the forth finger of the left hand. He waited. He expected tremors to race through the ground, flashes of light, a cold wind, apparitions to rise from the darkness, even the skeleton itself to sit up and speak... But nothing happened. Only his own ragged breathing broke the stillness and silence. Almost disappointed, but deeply relieved, he sat back on his heels. Then, he bowed his head and shut his eyes, and offered an earnest prayer to whomever or whatever may be listening in the vast, dark waste of eternity.

_Forgive him...and her.

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_Author's Note: The song is adapted from "Taking Over Me" by Evanescence. Review please!_


	16. The End of the Ghost's Love Story

**Epilogue: The End of the Ghost's Love Story

* * *

**

_"Holy Angel, in Heaven blessed, my spirit longs with thee to rest!"_

**_- _Faust.

* * *

**

She broke the enduring silence.

"Go on, write your story, Monsieur."

"I beg your pardon?" he said, his uneasiness relenting slightly. Her voice contained something very strange indeed: reason. She was "sitting" on a stool before what must have at one time been her vanity table. The tabletop mirrors were cracked and covered in soot. Gaston rose from his corner seat and knelt beside her. She looked exactly as she had when she first appeared to him, dressed in white lace, hair free and wild. Even the same faint coalescence of light pooled around her. She looked, ironically, like an angel.

"You may write your novel on the 'strange affair,' if you wish," the Ghost said, adding sardonically, "You have my sanction. I ask only that you do not tell the whole truth. Mix fact and fiction."

"How?" He blinked. What could she possibly mean?

She shook her head in mocking exasperation. "I do not know; you could make my hair blonde, or change the managers' names ... make _mon ange_ into a--a living corpse, if you will."

He nodded thoughtfully. Yes, he had some ideas of his own. Some Gothic horror touches that would, no doubt, obscure the tragic romance. He would respect her requests; the story would change.

"And you will not speak of me--my fate, will you?" She looked at him imploringly as he hesitated. She held his long-lost portfolio in her slender hands.

"I swore to you never to tell the secrets I know of the Angel in Hell," he answered solemnly.

She nodded, an indescribably heart-rending expression crossing her features, as she offered his old research files. "_Merci, monsieur_."

"_Plaisir_," he murmured, taking them, wanting no more than to kiss her hand, or show some other means of gratitude and reverence. But when he reached to take her hand, his fingers passed through hers like she was no more than a shadow. A deep melancholy welled up in him as he realised that they couldn't touch.

They never would.

He saw that she still wore the image of the slim plain gold ring on her finger. It glimmered.

Suddenly, she snapped her head toward the grand mirror, and sat completely still for several moments. Then, her face lit up, and she breathed, almost too softly for Gaston to make out in the silence, "I hear him..."

Gaston strained his mortal ears.

Silence.

"What? There's nothing, Mam'selle."

His comment went unnoticed as a beautiful smile curved her lovely lips, and pure love shone in her heavy-lashed eyes. "Monsieur Leroux, I can hear him—he is calling me! _Mon ange_, he-he's singing. For me!"

She rose, and sang fervently, "_My love, I hear you: speak, I listen__—stay by my side, don't leave me! _Mon cher_, my soul was weak, forgive me. I come to thee, my Angel..." _The mirror began to glow with brilliant white light. Did he imagine it; or did he truly see a dark, cloaked figure on the other side, shrouded in glimmering white mist that extended his hands in yearning and welcome?

"_Au revoir_, _Mademoiselle le Fantôme de l'Opéra," _Gaston whispered, as he watched her glide blissfully through the solid glass.

And the mirror shattered into thousands of pieces.

* * *

Gaston sat at his desk, staring at the tiny object sitting beside his pen: a shard of silvered, transparent glass, shaped like a rose petal. Such an ordinary piece of rubbish, but it held such significance for him. His thoughts and emotions were raging like a typhoon. He hoped that, now, the Ghost was finally with her Angel, and they could sing, all by themselves, until they swooned away with delight.

He leaned back in his chair, attempting to calm the racing words in his head, and thought, _Where to begin?_

After several moments of extraordinary contemplation, he had it; he picked up his pen and wrote with a flourish:

"The Opera Ghost really existed."

* * *

_**The end of one story ... and the beginning of another.**_

_**I hope you enjoyed my little story...Thank you for reading!Please take the time to leave me one last review. It has been the longest and most-involved fic I've ever written. So far, of course! Dedicated by Henry and I to Nade, my most loyal reviewer. I may write another chapter in "Faire des Achats," but I think I am going to finish writing my "Nightingale" poem first off. I do have an E/C story in the early stages of development; keep an eye out for "A Perfect Cage."**_


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